The Angel & The Saint
by Muffinsweep11
Summary: The only thing she knew of him was that he covered the right half of his face. The only thing he knew of her was that she was partially mute. They both didn't know what the other was hiding. They both didn't know they could learn to love again. POTO/Wicked xover.
1. Chapter 1: Introductions

**A/N: Yet another POTO/Wicked crossover. A story that popped into my mind while i was brushing my teeth. Another spontaneous plot, so let's see where this takes me. It should be in the POTO/Wicked crossover section, having characters from POTO, but seriously, what's the point of putting up a story if no one's gonna read it? So i think i'll leave this here for a while. Give it a chance, will you?**

* * *

The corridor was damp and stank of sewerage, the incessant dripping of water annoying to his ears. In the darkness several uneven cracks in the flooring tripped him often, causing him to fall to the puddled floor with a splash. Grunting, he would get back up to his feet, wondering how this fate had been assigned to him.

He was the Devil's child; he deserved this fate. He deserved to be shamed into solitude, shunned by the multitude. He was a gargoyle in hell that yearned for heaven's comfort, something he knew he wouldn't get anytime soon, not with this repulsive face.

Christine. Oh, he thought he'd touched heaven when he caressed her, he thought his dream had come true. But when she too recoiled in fear of the dark, it only made him see the light; that dream had been cursed as a reminder of the impossible.

Now he stumbled through the passageway, heartbroken and crushed, longing for this nightmare to end. Ever since he'd stepped through that broken mirror he'd wanted nothing but to get away from his life. Yet now it seemed another impossibility.

Something wrapped around his foot, nearly causing him another fall. Yet, he did not curse this time, as he found a pair of electric blue eyes staring at him through the darkness.

"Well, at least I still have you, my dear Ayesha," he whispered hoarsely. Just then, the cat took off running into the darkness, and in his fear of being left alone again, he hurried to keep up.

Then he saw it. Up ahead, a dim glow of faint moonlight, ever so small but there, shining into the corridor. He picked up his pace, and with the little light he was grateful to be able to see where he was stepping. His limps became strides and his strides became runs, and suddenly he burst out into the world, only to feel the pitter-patter of rain run down his face.

He looked around him. This was certainly not Paris. Trees towered over him, looming up into the midnight sky above. He looked behind him, only to see a never-ending forest of trees, trees that seemed neither pines nor rainforests. Where had his exit gone? What was this sorcery? The trees seemed of foreign species, but then again he'd never really seen the world above the Opera. He realized he was alone; Ayesha was no longer in sight. He sighed, having a feeling he had not seen the last of his pet Siamese cat.

Slowly, he began his arduous journey through the unfamiliar woods.

* * *

The rain didn't let up. The raindrops pounded mercilessly against the windows of the sanctuary, frightening patients beneath their covers and sending the maunts into frenzy. The Superior Maunt could not be in worse mood, her brow furrowed and face flushed. Her head reeled with the errands she had to run, and it gave her a worse headache to know that there was yet another patient at the doorstep of the Mauntery.

"Sister! We must let him in!"

"But where are we to put him? There are weary road travellers seeking refuge from that Ozforsaken rain as well! We have no rooms left, and everyone is not in better mood now."

"But Sister, he cannot be in worse shape!"

"Fine!" said the Superior Maunt finally, throwing her hands up in defeat, "Let him in, put him with Sister Doctor or someone, but do not bother me! I have worse matters to attend to with pneumonia and hypothermia attacking the patients!"

The woman ran to the door, where the man was still crouched, one hand clutching the right side of his face. He wore a simple plain shirt and a pair of black pants that was soaked to the skin, neither of Quadling nor of Gilikin origin.

"Come, child, we must get you inside, away from this hell of rain." She reached out a gloved hand to touch him, but he recoiled.

"I do not belong in such a sacred place," he growled in a heavily accent. "I belong in hell."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Nobody who seeks refuge in the Mauntery of Saint Glinda, belongs in hell," she said matter-of-factly. "Come, we must dry you before hypothermia gets to you."

"Let it," he said through gritted teeth. "I deserve it."

The woman's patience was waning. "I don't care whether or not you deserve it, master, but you will come in here and be my patient."

She practically grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the mauntery, ignoring aghast looks sent to her by her fellow colleagues. "Give me a ward!" she yelled, her tone clear that she would not tolerate any more nonsense from anyone.

A junior maunt quickly led her to a vacant small room, where the woman shoved the man upon the bed. She stripped him, ripping off his clothes without his consent, knowing he would surely refuse to oblige. Ordering a towel, she held him down until his strength to fight wore out, but she let him cover his face, giving him only that much freedom, despite her not knowing why he did it. The junior maunt rushed in with a thick towel, which she used to swaddle him so that he no longer shivered, and drifted off to sleep, his hand still stiffly on his right side of the face. She made no attempt to remove it however, for after all she'd done to him that night, she felt he deserved that little amount of privacy. She left the room and closed the Quoxwood door behind her.

* * *

He woke up to a throbbing headache. His hand was still on his face, though he was unsure why he'd been afraid to expose it in the first place.

Where was he? He sat up, his hand firmly in place, and groaned from his aching muscles. He was in a small, dimly lit room, with only a streak of morning sunlight filtering in from a window near the top of the wall. There was a bedside table, with a small candle, it's now weak and flickering wick casting dancing shadows around the room.

What happened? How did he get here?

The door opened, and he scrambled to the edge of the bed, into where darkness could hide his face. A veiled woman stepped inside, and suddenly all the events of last night came flooding back to him. The passageway; The woods and the rain; The struggle in the mauntery.

"You," he growled, his voice hoarse and crisp.

"Yes, me," she said. "I have brought you the maunt who shall be tending to you're needs during your stay here in the mauntery. And she has brought you breakfast. My job here is done. Lurline bless you, Master." With that the stout woman walked out, and in entered a much slender and taller woman, a dark veil also hanging over her face, carrying a tray of broth and water.

"I don't want breakfast," he said bluntly, though he eyed the glass of water.

Water. He throat itched and the dryness irritated him; he hated when his throat wasn't clear, especially when he needed that to sing.

She came closer, and instinctively he pressed himself against the wall.

The maunt did not speak, and instead she simply put the bowl and cup down on the beside table. Then she left him, her flurrying black skirts disappearing behind the door.

Tentatively, he reached out for the water, his hand shaking as he brought the cup to his parched and cracked lips. The cool liquid ran down his throat, and he gasped in pleasure. Setting the cup back down on the table, he spread himself out on the bed, half-heartedly letting a song into his mind.

"_I dreamed a dream in time gone by…"_ he sang, with a tired sigh. "_When hope was high, and life worth living…"_

Good, his voice still worked, even after screaming at Christine and that fop to leave him.

_"I dreamed that love would never die…I dreamed that God would be forgiving."_

He stared up into the ray of sunlight. "_Then I was young, and unafraid, and dreams were made and used and wasted. There was no ransom to be paid, no song unsung, no wine untasted."_

But then he looked away, turning over to face the wall. "_But the tigers come at night, with their voices soft as thunder, as they tear your hopes apart, as they turn you dreams to shame…"_

Indeed, he'd hooked all his dreams and hopes on Christine, who he loved and adored, but Raoul had taken her, and his dreams along with him. He shook his head. "_She sang a nighttime by my side, she filled my days with endless wonder. I took her childhood in my stride, but she was gone when daylight came…"_

He stared up at the ceiling, still absentmindedly singing to himself. "_And still I dream she'll come to me, that we will live the years together," _he let out another sigh. _"But there are dreams that cannot be, and there are storms we cannot weather…"_

* * *

She had had plans to tend to other patients. She had other things on her mind when she closed that Quoxwood door. She didn't expect herself to stop and pause when she heard the beautiful angelic voice drift out from within.

It was entrancing, and the pitch was perfect. She could not resist pressing her ear to the door, listening to the song sung by a man she never dreamed to have it in him. His tone was perfect as well, the way he delivered it was so fitting to the lyrics that it caused her heart to ache and melt. It was sung rather wearily, burdened with dogged tiredness, but it did not mar the perfection of the song.

_"I had a dream my life would be,"_ sang the man, his voice dripping with sadness, _"So different from this hell I'm living, so different now from what it seems."_

There was a pause, and the last notes hung in the air, painting the silence with ethereal music. Then the man sighed heavily.

"_Now life has killed the dream…I dreamed."_

At this point the woman could no longer contain herself. As soon as the last note drifted out, she crashed into the room, all manners forgotten. She was usually a composed and collected woman, but his singing just pushed her limits.

The man started as she entered, and once again jerked up into a curled position, the right side of his face obscured by the darkness of the corner. She later wondered what was there that made him so skittish about it. But for now she didn't care.

"Master," she breathed. "That was amazing." She could not find words to describe it; But then again, many words had been lost to her tongue over the years.

He did not reply, simply stared up at her a while, as if trying to comprehend this phenomenon.

"Let me know your name," she said shyly, slightly hesitant; she'd not spoken for some time.

He pretended to develop a sudden interest in his toes. "I have many names, but if you must know, it is Erik."

The woman nodded in acknowledgement.

"I'm Sister Saint Aelphaba."


	2. Chapter 2: Letting Go

**A/N: Please R&R!**

* * *

When Sister Saint Aelphaba came in frequently to tend to his needs, he stayed at the far corner of the bed where darkness was his friend, pondering over the raven-haired beauty, whom he knew nothing of. She was a beautiful woman, like Christine, but the singer had possessed more an angelic beauty; this woman held more of an exotic beauty, with such prominent cheekbones and a pair of sunken, passionate eyes. He could not see their color, hidden under the veil, but he could see the fiery passion that was flickering, ever so weak, but there.

He did not know why he paid so much attention to her. Perhaps it was to rid his mind of Christine and her love life. He would not let the fop's success get to him.

She never asked what he hid, though he could see her curiosity building as the day went by. He respected her for that, and also feared her.

She frightened him. He'd never received such compassion and respect from anyone, much less a stranger. She did not pry into his life, she only did what she needed to do as a – what did they call it? – a maunt.

"Sister Saint Aelphaba?" he asked, when she came into the room with yet another bowl of broth.

She looked up, unspeaking. He'd learnt earlier that Sister Saint Aelphaba was a partial mute since her arrival at the Mauntery.

"Tell me where I am again."

She did not reply, only setting down the food and drink.

"Please, mademoiselle, won't you tell?"

"You know." That was her only reply.

"I know I am in the Mauntery of Saint Glinda, but my question was expecting a more general answer, to where I am in general. I've not heard of Saint Glinda before, despite having stayed at a chapel once before."

"This is the Shale Shallows." Her tone was monotone, her speech stiff and detached.

"The Shale Shallows?" he repeated, the name sounding foreign on his tongue. "I have never heard of it before. Beg your pardon of my lack of humility, but my geography is rather explicit, and I dare say there is no such place as the Shale Shallows. What land am I in, mademoiselle?"

"Oz." Her voice was as flat as the wall he pressed against.

This struck Erik dumbfounded. Oz was certainly not on the globe.

By the time he'd shaken himself from his shock of this newfound knowledge, the maunt was gone from the room, soft as a shadow, quick as the wind.

Erik felt a smile tug at his lips; perhaps he'd finally found a match.

* * *

As she slipped out, she wondered of the strange phenomenon that had found it's way into her mind. That man was full of mystery, a puzzle she could not decipher. He seemed empty-headed and dense, asking rhetorical questions like where he was, claiming he knew nothing of the Shale Shallows and yet his knowledge of geography great. But she had a feeling he was more than that, more than just a man that cowered in the shadows.

Her mind drifted to his habit of sinking into the darkness. The right side of his face…what was there about it that needed hiding? She knew it was not her right to ask him, and give him that right of privacy, but she could not help but wonder.

She'd been wondering for the whole day. It'd been the only thing on her mind apart from the headache that the whinny boy Liir had been giving her. Liir was near five, and the bouncing thing just wouldn't give her a break from questions about the new patient. He was a servant boy in the mauntery, and somehow or rather Mother Yackle could not stop assigning him as her assistant. She never answered his bombard of questions, for she had no answers about the mysterious man apart from his name, which she kept to herself.

Erik…who was he? The name sounded foreign to the Ozian tongue. He called her by an unusual title, what was it...madamuzel? His accent was unlike anything she'd heard before - it had a lush and gooey texture to it, like caramel. Where was he from?

Despite all these questions building in her head, she never let them form on her lips. Speaking only gave away secrets. Her tone, her words, all were risks, and soon she had stopped speaking. She couldn't let anyone into her private life, not after what had happened with…Y_ero._

No, she wouldn't cry over him. She promised herself not to cry over him. She vowed not to hurt herself over that brainless, undeniably handsome prince.

Think of someone else, she told herself, think about Erik, and his left eye that shone with a gallimaufry of colors; bright amber around the iris that faded into a deep shade of turquoise, almost brown. Think of the stern, set jaw and the few stubbles that dotted the firm square chin. Think about his voice; his stunning, heavenly voice. Oh, how she yearned to hear it once more.

* * *

"Sing."

Erik jumped and scrambled into the shadows at the sound of the voice. Then he looked up, and saw Sister Saint Aelphaba standing there,her black robes as dark as night, staring at him with a plea in her eyes.

"Damn you, woman, have you no manners? Will it kill you to knock?"

She bowed her head in apology. "Help me," she whispered.

"Help you do what?" he asked warily.

"Sing," she repeated.

What? No, he wouldn't have it. He could not let another beauty fall in love with his voice and not his heart. He would not let himself seduce the woman with his voice, not after the fiasco with Christine. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle, I cannot."

"Why?" she asked softly, disappointed.

"You love my voice, I know, but I cannot have you know my voice better than myself as a physical person. I will not repeat the past."

"Please," she begged.

"Why?" he demanded. "I already told you, my voice only causes hurt to others."

"Please…"

"NO!" he roared, and the poor maunt flinched in slight shock and fear. His eyes widened as he realized his mistake, and hid his face from her. "I'm so sorry, mademoiselle. Please, forgive me. I am a monster."

There was no response, but he could still see her from the corner of his eye, standing her ground. It was enough to tell him that her initial shock had left her. Another thing that struck him. She was so unlike Christine; she held her ground. Christine...just thinking of her name stung.

"She fell in love with my voice," he said finally, his voice barely audible. "She fell in love with my voice, not with me. I didn't know that. I thought she loved me, and I loved her back. And when I learnt she didn't love me the way I thought she had…" he turned to face the wall, his body wracking with sobs. He didn't want to think of it anymore.

He felt the presence of a hand on his shoulder, and he jerked from the contact; he not used to human touch. Even if he'd just told her part of his past, he couldn't let this maunt in so fast; not yet.

She drew back, much to his relief, but did not leave the room. There was a moment of silence that hung in the air, with only the sound of his ragged gasps and uncontrollable sobs.

But then, another sound filled the air, enveloping the atmosphere with serenity and sweetness.

"_Hands touch, eyes meet. _

_Sudden silence, sudden heat._

_Hearts leap, with a giddy whirl._

_He could be that boy…I'm not that girl."_

His sobs subsided. That voice, it couldn't have come from –

_"Don't dream, too far,_

_Don't lose sight of who you are._

_Don't remember that rush of joy._

_He could be that boy...I'm not that girl."_

But it was. As he turned, slowly to face the partial mute, he heard that beautiful sound escape her lips.

"_Ever so often we long to steal,_

_To the land of what-might-have-been._

_But that doesn't soften the ache we feel,_

_When reality sets back in…"_

She smiled at him, her thin lips spreading into a curve, bringing light to his world of darkness. Her eyes were now full of sadness, perhaps of empathy for him?

She'd not been perfect; her pitch was unsteady, she was using too much of her throat, and her notes were airy. But the feeling was there and so was the range. The emotions that the song beheld were brought out perfectly.

Erik suddenly recalled a similar happening with Christine. She'd been singing to him too, when he discovered her.

It was all too similar, Erik realized with a pang of guilt in his chest. He couldn't let it happen again. He had to resist the temptation to train her. He couldn't repeat the past.

He didn't even have his mask with him, he told himself, and without it, he felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and he couldn't possibly teach her without his confidence, could he?

Yet, somehow, those only felt like weak excuses not to train such a potential voice. She had it in her, so why not he help her free her voice? Why not get this mute speaking again, unlock her speech through music?

But no…_the past_, he reminded himself, he didn't want to hurt her.

He began to weep once more, for the lost of such a saintly sound.

* * *

Sister Saint Aelphaba was about to lose her temper. She'd gathered up her lost courage to sing and comfort the crying man, only to hear him break down once more.

"Christine," he sobbed, drawing his knees up to his chest. "Christine…why did you do it?"

She was hesitant about her next action. Who was this Christine? Again the name was foreign, reminding her that she knew nothing of Erik's life. Should she leave him to his troubles, or try to help him?

He had not helped her with her troubles, she reasoned. She had tried to ask him to sing for her to get the nightmare out of her mind. The nightmare that had poisoned her mind for many years.

_She's running, through the streets and alleyways of the Emerald City. Fiyero is ahead of her, running as well, and as he turns into the corridors and darted into the paths she recognizes it as the route back to the Corn Exchange. _

_"No! Fiyero no!" she screams, knowing the imminent, but he cannot hear her. Only when he reaches the front door of the Exchange, he turns, glaring at her with eyes burning with anger and regret._

_"I should've never fallen for you," his tone is harsh and cold. "You're the cause of my death, the cause of my family's mourning. You plagued my life, rid me of my happily ever after. You're nothing but a wicked witch."_

_She stops a few meters from him, her lips now frozen and paralyzed._

_"Goodbye, Elphaba." _

_"NO!"_

_He rushes into the Corn Exchange. Her bloodcurdling scream is joined with those that came from inside the dilapidated building. They rip through her heart like a sword, tearing it to shreds. Her feet are frozen to the floor, and tears begin to burn her cheeks. It hurts…it hurts so much._

_The floor gives way under her, and she falls into an abyss of eternal darkness._

And she would fall, until someone woke her and held her thrashing arms down while convincing her it was only a dream.

A dream, that tormented her and plagued her mind with the screams of her beloved.

She'd looked for anything that could rid her mind of it, and finally she thought she'd found it.

Erik's voice.

Could he be her Angel of Salvation?

* * *

**A/N: Erik's eyes are fashioned after those of a friend of mine, which i found unique (mine being boringly brown), and an unusual man such as Erik should have unusual eyes right? I don't know I'm one of those phans who have never read the book; It's only been a month since i first watched POTO...**


	3. Chapter 3: Spirit of Inquiry

He stayed there for another three days, making sure that his face remained in the shadows. He knew he couldn't stay here forever; he'd have to find some way to make a mask. He was running dry on ideas, until he heard the singing. Terrible singing, in fact, but they were voices of children.

"I didn't know there were children here," he commented to Sister Saint Aelphaba, who had come in once again with his lunch.

She said nothing, spinning on her heel and heading for the door - The door that swung open just before she could touch the handle, letting a boy burst in like a bubbling ball of energy.

"Sister Saint Aelphaba! Did you hear us? Did you?" he couldn't seem to stop moving, consistently bouncing up and down on the spot. "We sang quite loudly."

"And quite out of tune," muttered Erik, a little too loudly. At this the boy noticed his presence, and bounded up to him.

"Hello Mister!" he said, almost shouting into his ear. "I'm Liir, what's your name?"

"Erik," he said simply. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sister Saint Aelphaba using the disturbance as an opportunity to slip out of the room again. You witch, leaving me to this little bastard, he thought.

"So, Mister Erik, where are you from?"

"Question is, where are _you_ from?" countered Erik, a little too harshly. But the boy didn't seem to notice the tone, seemingly bouncing off him like a rubber ball; which seemed ironic – Liir wasn't exactly the skinniest.

"Oh, I'm from the Children's Department in the East Wing." Erik raised his eyebrows questioningly, and the child was sharp enough – much to his surprise – to realize he wanted an elaboration. "It's for the residential children. Most of us are orphans, others…we just don't know where our parents are most of the time."

Erik cringed.

"So, do you know where your parents are?" he asked softly. He didn't know what made him talk to this child; perhaps it was the fact that he could relate to Liir – he'd had his taste of abandonment, after all.

"I don't even know who my parents are, sir," he said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. "Sister Cook refuses to tell me, though that maunt seems to have a hunch."

Erik made a mental note to visit that maunt. He felt the urge to help this child find his parents. No child deserved to be without parents, with the exception of him and his monstrous face.

"But I'm sure they just forgot about me by now, so it won't be worth it trying to find out," he said, his cheerful nature resurfacing. "I'm having a lot of fun here in the Mauntery though, with the monthly plays and games. I just wish Sister Seamstress would make better costumes, but I don't blame her, we're not exactly a rich mauntery. The storage room doesn't have many materials…" as Liir rambled on, a plan began to form in Erik's mind. A plan that could save him from disgrace, one that could save him from being ashamed in front of Sister Saint Aelphaba. Speaking of that maunt…

"So tell me a bit of Sister Saint Aelphaba," he said suddenly, breaking Liir's rant. "You appeared rather attached to her when I saw you catapulting through the door."

Liir flushed bright red at the description of his first impression. "Well, she's my mentor here," he explained. "She came here before I was born, I heard from Sister Doctor. She'd slit her wrists, from what I've heard off the gossip, and she fell into unconsciousness for a year. About her past, she won't tell me. She's a mute."

"A partial mute," corrected Erik. Liir looked at him in askance, confusion written on his cherubic face.

"No, she's a full mute. She's never spoken a word. I haven't heard what her voice sounds like at all."

Erik was once again surprised. Why did Sister Saint Aelphaba decide to talk to him solely then? Was she somehow falling for –

No, that was impossible, he'd rarely sung to her. Only once, but it still seemed quite out of the question.

She certainly won't fall for me when she eventually sees my hideous face, he thought bitterly. He was a monster incapable of love, he knew, in that moment when Christine had betrayed him, in that moment when she kissed him out of pity and only to save her precious spoilt fop.

"Well, I ought to be off to my duties now," said Liir. "I'm to assist Sister Saint Aelpbaba with sweeping duty. Good day, Mister Erik." He skipped to the doorway, smiling at Erik.

The Phantom could not help but smile back.

* * *

It came to the time Sister Saint Aelphaba began to nag at the man.

"The wall is not good for your health."

Erik looked up, shooting her with a stubborn glare. "Breaking into other people's privacy is not good for your health, mademoiselle, and so is being a mute."

She flinched at his last words, hurt flickering in her eyes. "You…you don't understand."

"Tell me, mademoiselle, why do you refuse to speak? All the more, why only to me."

"Liir told you." It was not a question. Sister Saint Aelphaba kept her face straight and emotionless, but on the inside she was boiling with a string of colorful curses. Damn that big-mouth boy.

She didn't actually know why she had decided to talk to this complete stranger. He'd showed up in the middle of the night with outlandish clothing and a strange accent; she had no reason to trust him. But it was irresistible, his voice was so smooth and rich and those eyes that fixed themselves on her were…were entrancing. It terrified her to the core.

"Oui mademoiselle, and let me question you of the knowledge of the boy's past," he said. She gave him no response, but nonetheless he continued, "Do you know who his parents are?"

"Can I ask you," she asked sharply, "why you are violating your belief that breaking into privacy is not good for your health?

She drew in a sharp breath and swiped her hands upon her mouth. That was the most she'd ever said in five years, and with such force as well. Her fright for this man built up. What was he doing to her?

"Well, you're a feisty one," he commented, the shadow of a smirk lingering on his features – the ones she could see, that was.

"And I'll be feisty enough to drag you off that wall," she growled, not knowing where all this negative energy was coming from. This man just seemed to have an effect on her, be it good or bad. Now he was just getting on her nerves, and it didn't help that it was the end of the day and she had an hour to move him to another ward before Superior Maunt came down on her.

"I'd like to see you try," he challenged, pushing himself against the wall.

"I shan't be surprised if your face is as flat as a pancake."

"Well you'll be more than surprised when you actually see it."

Sister Saint Aelphaba stood staring at him for a while. She was near finding out what was on the other side of that unnervingly handsome face. Then she advanced as quickly as lightning, yanking sharply on his arm, so that he came falling from the bed, landing face flat on the cold hard ground. Good, her training from her years with the Resistance finally paid off. He was weakened from his days of lack of exercise; there was no way he could've had any energy left to fight.

As he sat up to rub his throbbing head, she finally saw the right side of his face. No, it couldn't be called a face, for she could see twisted flesh and muscle, the lack of skin that exposed the bridge of the nose. His hand momentarily lifted off the top of his head, exposing a series of bulging veins and…was that brain?

He'd been correct. She was more than surprised.

* * *

Erik groaned as his head hit the hard floor. That woman was stronger than he'd thought. Propping himself up on his left elbow, he rubbed his throbbing temple, only to remember his face was exposed. In the moment of panic, he covered whatever he could of his hideous face, not daring to look at that shocked, disgusted expression that the maunt probably wore. Damn her, the prying Pandora, the –

He stopped his internal swearing mid-curse as he realized something was off.

The scream was missing. He peeked out to look at her feet, to find her still standing. There had been no gasp, no horrid words of utter disgust thrown at him.

Slowly he turned to face the maunt, only to find her staring down at him, a myriad of expressions flying across her features, there seemed to be curiosity, amusement, surprise, and empathy…but there was not a hint of disgust.

How was that even possible? That someone so beautiful and flawless would stare at him with _empathy_; what did she have to empathize with him?

Now it was his turn to be curious.


	4. Chapter 4: Concealment and Revelation

**A/N: I just realized i forgot to put the Ozdamn disclaimer.**

**Disclaimer: Wicked belongs to the true Wizard Gregory Maguire and others involved in the wonderful creation and Phantom of the Opera belongs to mainly ALW and Gaston Leroux, who has inspired all phics.**

* * *

He never heard her voice after he'd been exposed. She sneaked him into a new ward on the upper levels of the mauntery in respect that no one else saw his face. The room was just as small, but he was grateful that she had not brought up the subject of his face again.

This just added another of his 'traits of Aelphaba that are exact opposite of Christine' list. He didn't know how to react to her reaction. Usually he'd just yell at the person to leave him alone, and she'd comply without question. But now that he met someone would wasn't repulsed by his face, he was at a loss of what to think.

He turned his thoughts elsewhere. He needed a mask. Although Sister Saint Aelphaba knew his secret, he still needed something to cover up the deformity to get out of the room. He was getting claustrophobic.

He rarely slept, for sleep only brought the haunting past, and so it was no problem for him to stay up one day and wait till the mauntery fell into darkness, till there was no one awake but those on night shift. He'd managed to weasel out the shift timetable from Liir, who visited often, as well as a layout of the mauntery.

He opened the door, cringing slightly as the door creaked, badly in need of oiling. He darted out into the dark corridor, feeling the familiar comfort of the shadows. He crept along the corridors, making his way to the East Wing with speed and agility. He was not a man of brutality, but instead of stealth. He'd learnt to make his way around the complex catwalks and rafters of the Opera without anyone noticing, so venturing through the empty corridors was a walk in the park.

He came to the door he'd been looking for, and drawing out a pin he'd plucked from Sister Saint Aelphaba's head without her noticing, he picked at the lock, opening it with ease.

He stepped inside, only to be surrounded by the props and costumes of the storage room. It was an eerie reminder of the dressing rooms in the Opéra Populaire, with dim moonlight streaking in from the high windows.

Back on task, he told himself. He began to rummage through the box which stored the masks. Most where battered old masks donated for the children, but there were others that were evidently too big for the petite little faces.

His hand brushed across a cool, smooth surface, and he felt the mold of a nose, and the two eyeholes.

He smiled once again as he lifted the white mask into the moonlight.

* * *

Sleep wouldn't come to her. She didn't know if she should be frustrated or grateful. Part of her wanted to go to sleep, to close those weary eyes and let her brain shut down, but the other part was reluctant, unwilling to sink into that dark abyss where her nightmare lurked.

She tossed and turned upon her bed for a while, her stomach twisting with indecision. Outside, the rain fell like spears, and she found herself yearning for arms to be around her, to comfort her and assure her that everything was going to turn out alright even with imminent danger. It'd been so long…so long since she'd felt those strong firm arms caress her, that warm breath against her cheeks, those lips brushing against her skin, that tremulous sensation as she melted to the kiss –

"Stop it!" she hissed, to herself. Great, talking to herself – she was being delusional.

Tossing aside the covers, she climbed down from the bunk bed she shared with the munchkin Sister Apothecaire (on which she slept on the upper bunk, for obvious reasons). She shivered slightly as her bare feet touched the cool flooring of the dormitory. Balancing on the tips of her toes, she sprung across the room and fetched her army boots, her only pair of shoes. Feeling the warmth of the footwear, she grabbed a kerosene lamp, and opened the door to the dark corridor outside, wincing slightly as the hinges squeaked in protest. She'd forgotten the number of times she had reminded Sister Maintenance to get those fixed, all in futility.

She sneaked out into the dimly lit corridor, lighting her lamp, illuminating the corridor with a warm, orange glow. She found herself sweeping down to the chapel, only realizing where she was when she saw the large statue of Saint Glinda.

She smirked. Glinda hadn't been much of a saint when she was in –

"No!" she snapped. Hell, she was a madwoman, talking to herself again? Glinda was of the past, along with the dark dangerous memories that threatened her sleep.

She set the lamp on a bench, and lowering herself next to it, she stared up at the long thin beams of moonlight that entered through the multiple panels of glass panes near the rafters.

A draft breezed in, a shiver running through her body. She hugged herself, letting her long raven hair fall over her shoulders.

Again she wished for company. But no matter how much she wished, no matter how much she dreamed and stole to the land of what-might-have-been, she would wake up to reality….

And find that she was on her own.

* * *

He'd been sitting in rafters, carving out the mask to his preference, enjoying the pitter-patter of rain that fell on the roof above his head. He enjoyed this little bit of solitude, this natural silence. To him, the beauty of silence was as great at the beauty of music.

The chapel was a relatively small one, with several rows of benches and a small gallery. But nonetheless Erik thought it cute, after being bored of seeing the same chapel everyday back at the Opera.

He felt a breeze, and looking down, he saw the double doors open to reveal a woman, whose features remained hidden in darkness of her long flowing hair, darting into the room.

She lowered the lamp she'd been carrying, staring up at the statue of the woman.

Erik thought he saw a smile creep to her face, before she snapped, "No!", as if reprimanding someone.

It was Sister Saint Aelphaba. What was she doing, talking to herself? Why was she here?

The maunt sat upon one of the benches, and wrapping her arms around, she looked to the glass panels above. Then she began to sing again, her sad, lamenting voice filling the chapel.

"_On my own, pretending he's beside me._

_All alone, I walk with him till morning._

_Without him, I feel his arms around me,_

_And when I lose my way I close my eyes…and he has found me."_

She seemed to want to cry in lament of condemnation, yet only her voice could do it for her. She looked away, as if staring at the rain outside.

"_In the rain, the pavements shine like silver._

_All the lights are misty in the river._

_In the darkness, the trees are full of starlight._

_But all I see is him and me forever and forever…"_

Her voice cracked at the last note, sending her breaking down into sobs.

Suddenly there was a sizzling sound, and Sister Saint Aelphaba hissed…in pain? The crying disappeared as quickly as it came, and she began to mutter fiercely at herself, chiding herself once more.

Erik then realized how unstable the maunt was in actuality. Despite her stubborn, strong attitude she'd displayed to him over the days of his stay, she seemed fragile and on the verge of shattering.

Realization struck him. She'd tried to slit her wrists, Erik remembered. He'd almost tried that once as well, and that was when he'd been…depressed.

Now as he looked upon the shaking body of Sister Saint Aelphaba, he found it difficult to imagine that strong maunt who'd pulled him off the bed the other day. He could only see a saddened, depressed girl whose haunting past seemed to be unrelenting. He didn't know where she came from, or who she was in particular, but at that moment, he knew he could only comfort her.

* * *

_"Wandering child, _

_So lost, so helpless,_

_Yearning for my guidance."_

That angelic voice floated out through the darkness, slightly startling Sister Saint Aelphaba in all the solitude she thought she'd been in. Was that an angel calling out to her? No one else could have such a heavenly voice, other than –

She smirked. She should have seen it the second she heard it.

"Master Erik, a pleasant evening."

She heard a swish of cloth, and she saw Erik drop down from the rafters with the amazing agility of a cat.

Suddenly she realized she didn't have her veil on. Oz dammit.

She shrunk into the shadows and turned her head, hiding her face from him as he came closer, a new half mask covering his deformity.

"Another tick off the list," he murmured, observing her. To her he said, "I didn't expect your presence, mademoiselle."

"And neither did I yours," she said simply, too worried about him finding out her secret to control her speech. She'd never felt so vulnerable before, so exposed. She prayed he could not see her skin color in the darkness.

He showed no sign of noticing, but it was only a matter of time before he found out. She was cornered.

"Mademoiselle, may I inquire why you hide your face from me?" he asked, his silky voice stroking against her, almost hypnotic. "Such a beautiful creature does not belong in the darkness."

Beautiful? She scoffed. "Sir, you don't know how contradicting your statement is."

"A beautiful creature belongs in the darkness?"

"No, sir. That I am beautiful."

Erik laughed, his laughter somewhat causing her insides to twist. Everything about him was just so bewitching. "If you are not beautiful then I belong in hell," he said, "Let me see your face, mademoiselle, I've not the chance to look into those sure beautiful eyes of yours."

She hoped if she didn't answer he would leave her alone, but he didn't seem to relent, his looming shadow towering over her.

She sighed. Perhaps she could just tell him…maybe he would understand.

"Master Erik, how did you get your deformity?"

* * *

At the question he flinched. Why was this maunt suddenly so curious? "It is none of your con – "

"Was it because of burns, or of dragon scrapings?" Erik nearly jerked in surprise. Dragons existed in this world? This was certainly not Earth. "Or by an animal attack? Or – "

"I was born this way," he said shortly, cutting her off.

There was a moment of silence. She saw her shoulders sag, perhaps in relief?

"Well," she said slowly, "At least your inborn deformity is easy to cover up."

She had a deformity? Erik was more surprised than at the fact that dragons existed. How could such an alluring woman have a deformity she could not hide easily? And how could he not have noticed?

Then she turned, and her face caught in the moonlight.

He saw his answer.

She was green.


	5. Chapter 5: Curiosity Killed the Cat

**A/N: Just a warning - Christine-lovers should stay away from this story. I do not need a mob running after me.**

* * *

No words could form at his mouth.

He could only stare, stunned. She was _green. _Green as grass, green as leaves, green as –

"You can stop staring now," muttered Sister Saint Aelphaba,

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle, forgive me," he said quickly. "We don't have green people strutting around the streets in the daily life of – "

"I get it," she said, cutting him off. Her tone was strained, and she was obviously hurt by his reaction. Erik felt a pang of guilt. When she had discovered his deformity, she'd shown empathy, being able to relate to him. And what did he do when he found out about hers? He stared at her like an idiot.

"Your green still does not mar your beauty, mademoiselle," he pointed out. It was true, she was still of radiant beauty. In fact, the green made her look even more stunning. And now he finally saw her eyes. Those deep, cerulean eyes that stared at him with mock surprise.

"You don't have to lie, sir," she said pointedly. "A freak like me isn't worth lying to."

"You're absolutely right, mademoiselle," agreed Erik, smirking. "I don't need to lie to tell you you're one of the most enchanting woman I've met."

Was it just his imagination, or did the maunt just turn a deeper shade of green?

They continued to stare at each other, them two freaks. Erik soaked in her image, while the maunt registered his appearance, her gaze never falling once on his new addition to his clothing, much to his surprise.

"Well," she said, a little awkwardly, breaking the silence between them, "you should get back to the ward. The maunts on night shift will be doing a ward-check soon." With that she stood, and Erik suddenly noticed how tall she was for a woman. She came up to his cheekbone, and he himself was much taller than average men.

They locked eyes for a moment, the brown meeting the blue.

"Between us," she whispered. "My name is Elphaba."

And with one flick of her black raven hair, she turned on her heel and exited the room, leaving Erik to ponder over the green beauty that had sneaked her way into his mind.

* * *

What had gotten into her? Telling him her real name? What was she thinking?

Why was she being so easy to break into?

Her past hurt. It hurt very much. The people of the outside world just reminded her of all the cruelty Oz beheld. The Animal Rights, the political struggle. Everyone suffered. She'd detached herself from her sufferings by retreating into the mauntery, by putting up her defenses, and building her mental shields. There was no trouble in a world of introversion, no trouble when no one could use untold secrets against you. She didn't let anyone into her bubble of isolation, never speaking for fear of slipping out secrets of her past.

Until that man had bumbled into her life.

He gave her a sense of trust, a feeling of security. Almost like Fi –

She stopped dead in her tracks. No, she couldn't be. She'd promised never to love any other man.

Never.

She found herself laughing. She was being utterly stupid. It was infatuation, and she knew it. She was only in love with his voice, not himself as a person. She counted herself lucky that she opened her eyes to that fact before she fell under his spell. No, he was nothing more than an acquaintance. Her falling for him was artificial, only drawn to him by his voice. That sweet, seductive voice that could fire up the passion of a volcano or clam a raging storm. Damn it for being so perfect.

Pushing her internal storm aside, she entered his ward to deliver his breakfast, finding Erik leaning calmly against the wall, stroking a Siamese cat, both pairs of eyes following her every movement.

"I hope the mauntery allows animals, because if they don't, Ayesha's claws will be the last thing they see."

Elphaba said nothing, only observing the cat. The cat stared at her with eyes of neon blue, and slid from Erik's hand with astounding grace. The cat leapt from the bed, pacing towards her with silent steps. Elphaba was unmoving. Her stubborn attitude began to reemerge, bringing along the refusal to back down, even if it were a mere cat.

Erik's stony expression only changed as the cat began to snuggle up to the maunt, a flash of amusement appearing on his features.

"She likes you," he smirked. "That's rare for Ayesha."

Elphaba raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"She almost always claws my visitors up before they have the chance to speak," explained Erik. "It really does amaze me you're still in one piece."

"And where do you come across such kittens with the attitude of a tigress?" the maunt blurted out, unable to resist the urge to ask.

"Abandoned on a street in cold December," replied Erik icily. "Avoiding butchers."

Elphaba was silent.

"Her struggle made her strong, however," added Erik, his tone tense and firm. "Just as my ordeals have given me strength to continue as well, to prove that I will not be beaten so easily. My childhood was a living hell, despised by my own mother, captured and tortured by gypsies, forced to show my face to jeering crowds. Yet what doesn't kill you makes you stronger…it makes you stronger…. " He trailed off. Elphaba, aware of his discomfort, tore her gaze from his attractive eyes, setting down the tray of food. He drew his knees to his chest, and Ayesha, sensing his distress, jumped upon the bed and curled up to him, purring affectionately.

Erik tensed. His hands balled up into fists.

"Christine Daae," he hissed. "Why? _Why?_ Damn you woman. Damn you and your false pity! Of all the things that could shatter my strength I'd built!"

He looked at Elphaba, his eyes burning with white-hot anger. "Get out of my sight, woman. Why the hell are you still here? You women just seduce one man, and marry another. You're despicable," he spat. Seeing that nothing she could do to quell his anger, Elphaba retreated out the doorway.

So…the name was Christine Daae, the woman who broke his heart, caused him his misery.

She slumped against the wall, listening to Erik as he panted heavily, speaking to Ayesha in hushed tones. She began to weep, though she was careful not to let tears fall. She wept because he was so miserable. She wept because he'd suffered heartbreak. She wept because she hadn't suffered heartbreak. She wept because he and her suffered so differently yet so similarly.

She wept because they both mourned the lost of love.

* * *

She was weeping. He could hear it.

Was she weeping because of him? Of his lashing out?

Why did he lash out at her in the first place? He remembered Ayesha's acceptance, him explaining how he'd found the Siamese, and then…blank. His mind had gone completely blank, filled with nothing but rage. His mouth was moving, spilling out words he didn't know were escaping his lips.

He was such a monster. He caused destruction wherever he went.

Would Elphaba ever forgive him?

He grunted. No, she wouldn't. Christine feared him every since that fateful day. The audience gasped in utter fear when he'd been exposed on stage. Why should this woman be any different?

_Because,_ said a little voice in his head, _Elphaba is a far cry from Christine, the two women are nothing alike. She'll accept you._

Only out of courtesy of me being her patient, shot back Erik. Great, he was talking to his own conscience.

_Really? Do you think that is all you are to her? The way she trusted you with her secret she'd been hiding, the way she told you her real name, of all the things to give to a stranger?_

Shut up, she only told me her secret because she had no other choice, Erik tried to chase the voice away, yet it would not relent.

_You deserve each other, Elphaba and you; you're both so…similar._

Elphaba never had her heart broken, Erik thought.

_What makes you so sure?_

His mind could come up with no answers.

* * *

Why was she keeping such close observation on him?

Why was she noticing how he seemed to slink in the shadows of the corridor, and jump like a skittish animal whenever someone greeted him good morning?

Why did she even bother?

He is merely a patient, she told herself, she has to keep an eye on him.

But you have so many other patients as well to tend to. Why him?

Elphaba shook her head, focusing on her task of fetching water from the well. Erik was indeed an intriguing person, and she could name many reasons, for the matter.

She knew he was not from Oz, and it was puzzling to think of how he could've ended up in the Shale Shallows, nowhere near the deathly deserts that surrounded Oz. She knew he had had a hard past, something she could relate to.

She knew he had the voice of an angel, which women easily fell in love with. She knew Christine Daae had, whoever the heartbreaking brat was.

Elphaba paused in her thoughts. Who was she to call a stranger a brat? She knew from experience, not very good ones in fact, never to judge a book by the cover. Yet, she could see that Erik had really given his heart Christine, only for her to shatter it like a porcelain vase. And marrying another man, she remembered him say. That only added the bitterness that she felt for him.

She couldn't help but feel anger rising at the thought of the self-centered woman.

_No, Elphaba, you don't know everything, don't jump to conclusions_, her moral urged.

_She's an empty whore who only cares for herself, you know it! _her intuition screamed.

If her training at the Resistance had taught her anything, it was to trust her instincts. And her instincts were telling her Christine Daae, was a heartbreaking brat.

* * *

**A/N: Well, okay, Erik might be kinda bipolar in this story. And as you can now see I am somewhat a Christine-basher *smirks*.**


	6. Chapter 6: Ask the Turtle

**A/N: OMG I'm going to London! Woohoo! That, AND a concert featuring Shoshana Bean! Can my life get any better? Oh, and just a shout out to Fae the Queen, my most frequent reviewer (and only) for making my day each review :)**

* * *

"Let me get this straight," said the conductor, looking up and down at Erik for what seemed the millionth time. "_You _want to join the choir."

For what seemed the millionth time, Erik replied, "Yes."

"You? A patient?"

"Yes."

"A non-member of the mauntery?"

"Yes."

"You want to stay in this spiritual prison and sing in the choir?"

Erik thought about that for a moment. "Yes."

"Are you sur – "

"Monsieur if you would be so kind to spare me of your incessant bombard of questions and do your job as a conductor, I'd be more than compliant to sing for you," interrupted Erik, unable to contain the annoyance that this man was evoking in him.

"You can sing?"

"_Yes!_" at this point Erik had raised his voice to an indignant shout. All around him in the chapel staff ceased their work to stare at him, and under the multiple pairs of eyes he felt his face grow hot.

The conductor had also flushed a deep shade of red. "Fine! Fine!" he said finally. "Sing a scale starting from middle C up. Do you have perfect pitch? Or need I provide the note?"

"I have perfect pitch, thank you very much monsieur," Erik said rather irritably, but nevertheless sung the scale with ease.

"Any higher?"

Erik managed the second F.

"Now a scale down."

Again, he breezed through it.

"Any lower?"

"Of course," he said, and sung to the lowest note a bass could ever reach.

After that, he received only shocked silence from the conductor.

"Monsieur, I await your response," he pressed after the prolonged quietness began to irk him.

"My apologies, master, but a flexi is rare in such a small substandard choir as this." The conductor's eyes were still wide with wonder.

"I am…pleased that you appreciate my skills, but if you would cease your gawking and assign me my part in this choir of yours, we can get this over and done with more efficiently."

"Yes, yes master, if I may," said the conductor, snapping out of his trance, "tell me your name."

"Erik."

"Erik…?"

"Simply Erik, monsieur, my last name has been long forgotten, either that or I refuse to remember the name that links me to the horrid process of my upbringing."

"You speak of your childhood as if it were torture," noted the conductor.

"Perhaps it was," replied Erik shortly, "but that is not where your concern ought to lie. It should be to this choir." He gestured to the choir stands, where members were milling around, looking bored of the waiting.

The conductor glared at him. "Who are you, to tell me how to do my job?"

_I am the Phantom of the Opera, the unseen genius, the Angel of Music,_ he wanted to boom at the conductor, but decided against it. He wasn't at all hasty to get on the bad side of who might be the factor of his staying off the streets of…what was it again? Oz.

Instead he bowed humbly. "A man who has studied music all his life, and only wishes to join the choir so that he may be of service to this mauntery, and not a hermit stuck in his ward all day with a mind soon becoming dormant. "

The conductor could only stare at him, slightly bewildered. "Well then, let us get your mind active again. With your height, I suppose you'll have to stand at the back, with the baritones."

Erik obliged, moving to the back.

Now, he'd secured himself off the streets. All he needed to do now was to endure being in the same room as that prying, dithering conductor.

* * *

Elphaba had known there was something different about the choir that morn. The minute she walked past the chapel doors, she could hear that one outstanding angelic voice, rising above the others. It rang out with such passion, a unique passion which was absent in the usual monotone choir that nearly always bored her to death in morning service.

The service would start soon, she thought, looking up at the ancient grandfather clock somewhat slouched against the wall. And for once, she found herself looking forward to it.

* * *

Erik sang along with the choir, trying to resist the urge to wince every time he heard a flat note all around him. Their voices were rough and unpolished, and the conductor did nothing to change that. Several times during the rehearsal did he want to jump down from the stands and slap the man in the face and take over, but he fought the temptation each time.

He did not, however, fight back the sigh of relief that escaped his lips when the morning service ended. A whole hour of singing hymns that he'd never heard of, of a saint he'd had no idea about. He was glad at the sight of people filing out of the room, leaving him to more peace and solitude.

"You do realize," said a soft voice beside him, "that that was the first time I'd stayed awake throughout the entire service, don't you?"

He turned to find Elphaba standing there, her head bowed.

"Well," he said, "to think that one sentence could make my day."

"I did not realize you would be so easily pleased by a simple maunt," she whispered. "Of course, that's touch wood, you being a man of such…temperamental moods."

She knew she was in no position to criticize him. Especially with his mood swings, telling him his faults was akin to poking a sleeping grizzly bear. One wrong word could spark his anger – this she'd learned quickly.

She almost expected an outburst, and braced herself when she saw that angry flame light up in those golden turquoise eyes. But the blow never came, only a sigh of relent.

"Yes, I'm a man of bad temper," he admitted, the flame extinguished by a weary aura. "And I must apologize for the flaring-up those days back."

"There is no need to," she replied quietly. "I am used to such when it comes to cantankerous patients."

"I hope you still accept it mademoiselle," he said. "I cannot bear the guilt of having yet another woman hur –"

"Master Erik!" Erik groaned as he recognized the irritable voice of the conductor, and nearly didn't want to acknowledge the man.

"And what service may I be of you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even to prevent growling.

"Well, firstly, don't bother speaking to this maunt, sir, she will not speak to you." Erik looked down at Elphaba, who averted her eyes quickly. So, the rumors Liir had spoken were true.

"And secondly, I'd like to tell you that you are a member of a choir, not a soloist, so if you'd please tone down your voice to blend with the rest."

Erik felt his blood boil. The choir was already as bland as it seemed, and the conductor wanted him to tone down? Had he had any rope now, he would've surely strangled this man.

Elphaba seemed to notice the rise in his temper, placing a slim gloved hand upon his arm. No, he didn't have right to argue. He was just a mere stranger in a strange land. He knew nothing of citizenship rights, but if he wanted to keep a low profile, usurping authority above him will certainly not help.

"If I must," he said stiffly. He'd always been the one in control. This whole idea of obedience was new to him, alien to his life where he'd always been the one in control.

The conductor nodded, oblivious to his rage and urge to retaliate. As he stalked out of the room, Erik exploded.

"How dare he abuse the power of the voice! He is blind to think that passion is a negligible aspect in singing! In fact, passion is the one thing that defines a good singer from the rest! Music comes from the soul, not just the mind. One needs to feel it in order to make it, and now that blasted brute is convincing those poor voices otherwise. To be one, they need to feel each other, yes, but also the music. He is the reason you fall asleep during service, mademoiselle, not the music – though I am completely unaware of the hymns I am singing."

Elphaba chuckled slightly.

"You laugh at my theory woman?" he demanded, gripping her by the shoulders. She nearly cried out in pain, but instead bit back on her lips. He was oblivious to her pain, and continued his tirade. "Music is not to be toyed with. It is a gift from God, a heavenly instrument only passion can make perfect. It is no laughable matter, do you hear me!"

"I cannot hear you with my silent screaming in my head!" Elphaba hissed suddenly. Erik, realizing his mistake, jerked his hands back like he'd been burnt, stepping back from her in a long hasty stride. No…he'd hurt her again.

"I am sorry, again, mademoiselle, you ought to stay away from a monster like me."

There was a moment of tense silence between them, with only the sound of Erik's heavy breathing as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Then Elphaba spoke. "Once, when I was little, Mama used to tell me a story…I often forget it, but I hope it won't leave your mind when it comes to…these moments.

"There was once a man travelling along the Yellow Brick Road – it's a road that's made of yellow bricks, Sir, I don't know how the name can be anymore straightforward – when he spotted a turtle, trying to cross the road. The road was well used by travellers and traders, and there was a likely chance of the animal being trampled on by some reckless cart or carriage. He feared for its safety, and picked it up, bringing it to Restwater lake. There, without warning, it laid eggs, too close to the water. Not far enough to avoid the high tide, and the eggs were washed away. It turns out, the turtle was trying to get across the road, so that it may lay eggs on the other side."

She finished the tale, and fell silent, evidently waiting for a response.

"Um…well, that was…unfortunate."

She sighed. "Master Erik, you do not see my point. You see, the man acted rashly, his actions based on first judgments, the first thing that comes to mind. Akin to your situation, you should ask the turtle."

"Is that an analogy of your sk–"

"Know the situation before you act," cut in Elphaba before he could finish the unintended reference.

"I do not see how that is related."

"You never heard my explanation," she pointed out. "You jumped to conclusions when I was giggling that I was insulting you, instead of merely finding amusement in your unawareness of the tale of Saint Glinda, whom we worship in this mauntery."

Erik remained silent. In a distance, bells could be heard, signaling the start of the first shifts.

"Look, just…don't be impulsive." She turned to go, but Erik found a grip on her arm.

"You tell me to distrust my judgments?"

"No," she sighed. "I am telling you to look deeper, and understand before acting. And now I trust you understand I must attend to my duties, if you would be so kind to let me go."

Erik released his grip on her, but his questions were not finished. "Why do you stay silent in front of all of them, mademoiselle, when you seem to have so much to say?" he asked, making her stop in her tracks.

She turned slowly, her gaze locking with his. Even under the veil, he could see that her usually clear, sharp eyes seemed distant, almost foggy.

"Don't let them in, don't let them see, be the good girl you always had to be," she whispered, almost as if to herself. "Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know…"

And then she was gone.

* * *

**A/N: For those that don't know or don't bother stalking Idina Menzel, Elphie's last sentence was from the song 'Let it Go' in the upcoming movie Frozen.**


	7. Chapter 7: It Wasn't the Garlic

**A/N: It's irritating how i can't seem to combine the life and times of the Wicked Witch of the West and Halloween into a oneshot. Inspiration is being mean to me :( Well, please R&R and make my day :]**

* * *

Ask the turtle. Elphaba did have a way with explanations, thought Erik to himself as he lay upon his bed once more. It had hit him like a brick.

Had he considered Christine's feelings when he'd forced her into his doing? A supposedly delusional, crazed maniac obsessing over her, and she was supposed to feel comfortable and easy around him? Erik mentally slapped himself for being such a daft prick. He'd been so caught up in his own feelings, that he hadn't actually taken time to look at the big picture.

Oh, Christine…that name was a thorn in his side. He needed to get her out. Christine was of the past, in a whole different realm with her fop. He was living in the present. He couldn't keep harping on the past.

But what could he do other than mope around his ward?

Liir. He'd made a mental vow to the boy to find his parents. He couldn't let the boy suffer through the same feeling of betrayal.

So he got to his feet, slipping out once again and sneaking to the kitchen in the Central Annex, where he found a rather plump maunt busied herself with ordering kitchen helpers around.

"May I be so kind to ask," he said softly, causing the maunt to start and nearly drop her carton of eggs, "if you are Sister Cook?"

She turned on her heel to face him, her pudgy aging face contorting into one of distaste.

"Yes, I am who they call Sister Cook," she replied roughly. "And it is my job to remind you that kitchens are out of bounds to patients." Then, without warning, the maunt gripped him by the shoulders – hard, and Erik was caught on by surprise, for he'd never seen a woman of Sister Cook's stout stature to possess such strength – and threw him out of the kitchen.

Oh well, so much for that approach. He wasn't about to give up, however, in fact, he was far from defeat.

If the kitchens were out of bounds, he'd just have to catch her at lunchtime, when she'd have to many things on hand to expel him.

The clock's ticking irritated him to no end, but he tuned it out as he figured out what to say to the cook.

Therefore by the time lunchtime neared, when he sauntered into the bustling activity of the kitchen, his words were carefully chosen and lain out in his mind.

"You! Over there!" Sister Cook was too distracted to realize he'd been the same man she'd ejected earlier (strange how she managed to forget. With his mask and all, he was a man hard to forget). "Assist me with the garlic!"

Erik obliged, standing next to Sister Cook and began chopping.

"Sister Cook, if I may ask," he began, "do you remember Liir?"

"Liir?" she repeated gruffly as she started to pound the meat with the force that could match one of a lioness – which was now unsurprising to Erik. "Yeah, that boy's in the residential orphanage?"

"His parents came by yesterday, did you know that?"

Sister Cook paused in her pounding. "His parents?" she asked incredulously. "How is that even possible?"

"Anything is possible, Sister, even for people who abandoned their –"

"No…it's impossible, you see," said Sister Cook in a low voice. "His parents aren't together."

"No?" Erik's ears perked up to catch every hint this maunt dropped.

"For all I know, Sister Saint Aelphaba never mentioned any man in her life, much less any person."

The knife fell from his hands, falling to the terra-cotta floor in a clatter.

"S-si-sister Saint Aelphaba…is Liir's mother?!" It made sense. She'd fallen into unconsciousness for a year, he remembered…during which she could've delivered. But he still couldn't buy it.

"She never cared to know, though, and no one dared to drop the bomb on her, the already suffering mute," said Sister Cook, oblivious to his shock. "And now that old crony Yackle seems to want to get them back together, assigning her as his mentor. She'll realize soon enough her efforts aren't getting anywhere near successful."

"Pardon me, Sister, I must say you are rather pessimistic." His words were now coming out uncontrolled and unconsidered, resulted from the raging storm inside.

"Anyone who lives here long enough should know that," she replied bluntly again oblivious to his state.

He felt lightheaded. Sister Saint Aelphaba had had a man in her life. Did that mean she indeed had experienced heartbreak? It was all so clear now, why she was so withdrawn to the world and so empathetic to him. Could it be, that her weeping the other day was not solely because of him?

The revelation was too much, like a sudden flash blinding him. He needed time to adjust to this.

"Hey! Come back here!" he could hear the faint sound of Sister Cook's voice over the pounding of the blood in his ears as he stumbled out of the kitchen. "You haven't finished chopping the garlic!"

At this point, for all Erik cared, garlic was the least of his problems now.

* * *

"Sister Saint Aelphaba, you have been assigned a new patient," said the Superior Maunt, not taking her eyes off the clipboard. "He's in Ward 24 in the Home for the Incurables."

Erik was in the Home for the Homeless, the South Wing. The Incurables was in the North Wing. Sweet Oz, that would be convenient.

She pushed aside her grouse and made her way through the hallways, carrying the medicinal herbs and some water, when she saw Erik tumbling out of the kitchen doors as she passed through the Central Annex, his eyes wild and slightly unfocused. He must've been so flustered to even run by without noticing her, and Elphaba began to wonder what could've caused the usually composed man to become so…unhinged.

She heard Sister Cook screaming at him about garlic, but Elphaba doubted the ingredient was what had disconcerted the man. She'd to ask him about it later.

Getting her head back in the game, she put the little wondering on a mental cloud and floated it away, continuing on her trip to her new patient…

…who turned out to be her old schoolmate Tibbett.

He was hardly recognizable. His skin was akin to peeling grey parchment, his eyes like misty glass orbs. He lay on the bed like a rotting corpse, but when he heard the door open he turned his head to face her.

He showed no sign of recognition, but greeted her nonetheless. "Good mornin'. Nice day to see a livin' corpse, isn't it?"

Well, the jokes were still there. For an incurable, that was rare. She did not comment, however, merely nodded to him, set down the bowl and cup on the nightstand.

He let her tend to him for the next hour, before he warned her that nature called. She dragged his body off the bed, supporting him to the water closet, and helped him p – relieve himself.

For Tibbett, he only saw her as a stranger undressing him, and he seemed to treat it like an everyday thing. For Elphaba, she saw herself stripping her schoolmate, and the situation was quite awkward at first. But as the day went by, the errand of helping him relieve his piss and shit became routine, and it became slightly less awkward for the maunt.

He didn't recognize her for a while, but after a day's care, he finally pinpointed the familiarity of her face.

It was on that day he cracked a smile at her, those pallid lips pulling back into a grin.

"It's nice to see you again Elphaba."

The sound of her name escaping another's lips was not new, yet it wasn't old. It was like a old wound made fresh again.

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, so the woman in black speaks!" exclaimed Tibbett with mock surprise.

"For a living corpse, you speak quite a bit."

"For a mute, _you_ speak too much."

Elphaba rolled her eyes and abandoned the argument.

"Seeing how quickly you retaliated," continued Tibbett, unfazed by her ignorance. "You've been speaking to someone else, haven't you? The rest of the maunts I have spoken to all say you've been visiting Ward 666 quite often, despite the patient not needing any medical attention."

She felt her face grow hot. Oz dammit, so they had noticed.

"Who's the special one?"

"Master Erik is merely an acquaintance," she snapped. It was true…or wasn't it?

Tibbett raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Is that so?"

"Yes, and if you would be so kind to mind your own beeswax," she said, her patience waning. "I must attend to my other errands. You know to ring the bell should you need any attendance."

"And to think 'beeswax' was in a mute's dictionary," said Tibbett, bemused.

Elphaba wanted to retort. The feeling was not unfamiliar, having been irked into talking so much by Erik. What had that man done to her?

She darted out of the room, for fear of shooting her mouth off. Her heart pounded loudly against her chest as she slammed the door shut and leaned against it heavily.

What had Erik done to her?

* * *

"Elphaba is Liir's mother. Liir's mother is Elphaba. Elphaba's son is Liir. Liir is the son of Elphaba. _Enfer sanglant!_ No matter how I put it, it sounds…ludicrous, delusional! How is that even possible? No I'm just not thinking straight, it's quite simple and logical. But Elphaba is so withdrawn! No…anything is possible; you told Sister Cook that yourself! What do you think?"

Ayesha merely stared at him, unblinking.

Erik threw his hands up in exasperation. "_Merde!_ It kills me to realize how little I know of that maunt! It kills me, Ayesha! Those years of the Opera, I knew everyone's secrets, all their pasts! I had access to their papers, I knew their personalities, and now this is just…_Santa Maria_! I just cannot escape the iron grip of the past, can I? Argh!"

At his scream of denial, Ayesha sprung from the bed pounced upon his head, then took one more leap off and darted out of the room. Yes, run from me, Erik thought resentfully, run from me like how everyone does.

Erik plopped himself down on the bed, covering his face with his hands. Oh…will he ever escape the shadows of his past?

Just then, the door opened, to reveal the very last person he wanted to see now.

Elphaba approached him slowly, her steps hesitant. "A penny for your thoughts, sir?"

"I'll sell them for a dollar," grunted Erik. He wanted to get this conversation over and done with as quickly as possible. He feared the more he talked, the more sanity he lost.

"Garlic wasn't the thing bothering you, was it?" she asked.

Erik looked up at her, meeting those eyes now filled with concern. So she'd seen him confront Sister Cook. Had she heard their conversation?

"Do you know Liir's parents?" he asked slowly.

Elphaba's eyebrows raised in askance. "Just because I mentor that bastard, doesn't mean I know his past," she said, and Erik barely resisted heaving a sigh of relief. So she was oblivious.

But then, should he tell her? Let her assume her motherly duties?

He mentally slapped himself to see logic. He didn't know her past, he reminded himself, the maunts mean well when they keep the truth from her. He didn't want to break that.

"Well then, though I do feel sorry the parentless boy, I suppose he's happy as of now, and that's all that matters, isn't it? I see the way he acts around you. He's happy having you as a mentor."

Elphaba looked skeptical at his idea, but there was a shadow of a smile playing on her lips.

Erik smiled back reassuringly. He would tell her, in time, and softening the blow would be one way to do it.


	8. Chapter 8: The Perks of Carelessness

**A/N: Omg I'm going to London tomorrow! _One more dawn, One more day...One day more! _**

**Btw, I finally got my hands on the 25 anniversary soundtrack of PotO, and i think i kinda went crazy with it...in a sense that my headphones were on the whole day. Speaking of which, i just realized how weird my song lineup is. One minute i hear The Phantom yelling, and the next, there's the gentle intro of I'm Not That Girl. So sometimes it's like '_BURN YOU WITH HIS EYES..._Come with me, to the Emerald City *jovial music plays*' **

**Haha ok sorry about the random rant. Oh and thanks for all the reviews! Really made my day! Now, on with the story!  
**

* * *

"Sister Clerk's demanding your biodata, you realize that, don't you? All patients staying over one month must surrender their papers."

Erik inwardly cringed. This was it, the battle to keep himself off the streets. "I…"

"Don't belong in Oz," finished Elphaba. "You aren't from here, are you?"

"No," sighed Erik. "I'm from Earth. France, to be specific."

Elphaba cocked her head questioningly. "Never heard of Earth. The farthest I know of is Ev, the land beyond the Deathly Desert."

Mon dieu…how was he supposed to get back home then? He couldn't stay here, not as long as he didn't have any verification papers. But then on the other hand...he didn't want to go back to France, or Earth for the matter, where everyone openly despised him because of his deformity. He didn't know what Oz was like when it came to society, but he could start on a clean slate here, where no one knew of The Phantom of the Opera, where he was just another patient in the Mauntery of Saint Glinda.

Elphaba seemed to notice his dilemma, and said, "I can try to talk to Sister Clerk if you want, but I can't guarantee your stay."

Erik nodded in gratitude. "I appreciate all your help, mademoiselle, but pray tell, how did you ever come to the conclusion that I am…foreign?"

"Well, when you first came here, you were dressed in clothing never before seen in Oz. Then there was your accent…well basically your whole appearance. But if I may ask, how exactly did you wind up here then?"

"Up till now, mademoiselle, it still remains a mystery to me," replied Erik. "I was running from a mob, through one of my secret passageways, and then I burst out into the forest."

"Running from a mob, secret passageways?" Merde, did he have to be so careless?

"Back on Earth, I was…a wanted man." He swallowed hard. Now it was up to Elphaba to decide whether to accept that fact and keep her mouth shut, or to run away, screaming they had a criminal under their roof. Erik almost expected her to do the latter.

And yet, she surprised him again. "Well, you aren't on Earth now, you're in Oz, as my patient. Again, between the two of us," she bent down and lowered her voice till it was barely audible, "I was a wanted woman, if that does any consolation."

"To know that I'm in the midst of a miscreant, I'm very consoled," said Erik, without thinking. Realizing his sarcasm he quickly apologized, "Mon dieu! Mademoiselle I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you of any sort…"

Elphaba smiled at his blubbering. "It's alright, sir, just keep your mouth shut about it."

"My lips are sealed," he promised. "And now, would you care to enlighten me on the layout of Oz, if I am to stay here?"

"Well, I suppose you should know the four main countries: Gilikin in the North, The Vinkus in the West, Quadling Country in the South, and Munchkinland in the East. And of course, the capitol: Emerald City." Her last two words were spat out with disgust.

To Erik, that didn't go unnoticed. "You seem to have a grudge against this...capitol. I thought maybe, since your skin is – "

"The emerald color does irk me to no end," interrupted Elphaba. "But it's not entirely that…" she trailed off, and Erik caught a glimpse of hurt flicker in her eyes.

"I am sorry, it was not my position to ask," he apologized.

Elphaba shook her head sadly. "No, it wasn't."

They lapsed into silence for a moment.

"Then tell me, what is the government like here?" Erik asked finally.

Elphaba scrunched up her nose at this. "We run on the system of gynarchy in the individual countries."

"A petticoat government?"

"I suppose you could say that. But overall, the empire is ruled by one man," her face darkened, and her tone turned grim. "The Wizard of Oz," Erik could literally feel the temperature drop to one as cold as Antarctica.

"You hate that man, don't you, that's why you rebelled against him," inferred Erik. "That's why you're a wanted woman."

Elphaba stared at him, impressed. "Your inference skills are excellent, Master Erik," she complimented. "But now that I am part of a cult, I see no reason to have an opinion of such a man."

"Everyone has rights to their opinions, mademoiselle," said Erik pointedly. "Just because you join a cult, doesn't mean you must lose your self-identity and fade into the sea of faces."

Elphaba looked up at him, impaling him with that deep, thoughtful stare. "I...I haven't lost it. It's just...faded. It became a blur of memories and views."

Erik set his jaw sternly. "Then, mademoiselle," he said with a serious tone. "I take upon myself this quest to revive your individuality, to help you in return for all you have done for me. Let me, that's all I ask of you."

* * *

Later on in the month, Elphaba had managed to secure Erik's stay, but on the condition that he sung in the choir for at least another ten months.

"A year with that meddling, frivolous conductor," he grumbled. "Sure, I can manage that."

"You'll do fine," Elphaba said. "But you'd best keep your cool, for if I have to banter for your stay once more, Sister Clerk will most probably alert the Superior Maunt of my treason, and then you'll have a companion out on the streets." For such a risky situation, the maunt seemed to make it sound rather light, Erik noticed.

"So you'd put your job at risk, for my sake?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Friends are supposed to lay down their lives for each other," she said, the words slipping from her mouth before she knew it. She mentally slapped herself for her carelessness.

"Mademoiselle, are you implying – " He could never finish his sentence, for the maunt had fled the room in self-shock.

* * *

Oz dang it, damn her slip-up tongue, damn her. The slip-up was not going to be forgotten, that was for sure. Elphaba marched down the hallway in an angry huff, muttering curses under her breath.

"You do realize, to say curses in such a holy place is a crime against Saint Glinda," said an elderly voice behind her. "Especially for a mute.

Elphaba turned to face the speaker, bowing her head in humble apology. "I'm sorry, Mother Yackle, I just couldn't resist venting my anger."

"At whom, may I enquire?"

"Myself."

Yackle cackled (lol). "Self-hate, the strongest hate of all. A slip-up of your tongue?"

Elphaba opened her mouth in disbelief, but Yackle carried on to explain, not needing the question. "To shoot your mouth off without doubt means you must've been talking beforehand, and 'slip-up' being part of your string of profanities, well, that is quite self-explanatory."

"Well, yes, i…I slipped out that Erik and I were friends, but we are far from that –"

"Or aren't you?"

"What?" Elphaba choked slightly. "No, Mother, Erik and I have absolutely nothing, we are only accomplices. Patient and nurse."

"Oh, but rather lately you've been visiting him more often than any other patient," Yackle pointed out. "Even that schoolmate of yours, what 'is name? Tebbitt–"

"Tibbett, Mother," Elphaba corrected.

"Whatever. The man is quite observant for an incurable. Either that, or your attraction to the man Erin is becoming quite noticeable."

"Erik," Elphaba corrected once more. "I have no attraction to him, no matter what you say. The bond between us is negligible."

"And yet you are beginning to open up," said Yackle. "You are being pulled out of that grief of losing one man, for you have found another."

Elphaba felt a pang of hurt stab her heart as she heard Yackle mention Fi – _him _so dismissively. No, she would never fall for another man. She would never again share the same passion as they had shared.

"Erik, is only a friend. There, I said it," Elphaba huffed, throwing her hands up in defeat. "I treat him as a casual friend. We have nothing between us. Now if you'd excuse me, Mother." She spun on her heel and walked off.

"Sister Saint Aelphaba, you're heading back to Erik's ward?"

Dammit, wrong direction. Heat rising to her cheeks, she turned around and headed north.

This time, _away _from Ward 666.

* * *

A friend. Elphaba had indirectly called him a friend. He'd never had any proper friend before, other than that goon of a Daroga, Nadir Khan.

Had Christine been his friend?

No, she'd feared him, pitied him. There hadn't been an ounce of compassion or empathy in the relationship they had shared, no closeness or friendliness. Erik still couldn't get the image of those big doe eyes filled with endless pity out of his mind, nor could he release himself from the moment Christine had forced her lips upon his, in a desperate attempt to free her precious fop. It had worked, but it had scarred him forever.

Erik scoffed. As if he weren't already scarred.

Absentmindedly, he traced the outline of the half mask, feeling every curve, every bump beneath his fingers. Elphaba hadn't been afraid of him. She'd shown him compassion, showed him there were more things to life than just darkness. She was slowly bringing him back to life, reforming his identity as an individual. That was a true friend. As Nadir had once done for him, she too was now laying down her life to help him, helping him up when he fell, mentally shouting, "Get up!" and motivating him to live on.

She was friends to him, but was he friends to her?

He'd found her presence quite comforting, and she looked rather comfortable in his presence, something he had yet to get used to. The only other times when he had been in the presence of another for more than a minute without trying to kill them was with Antoinette Giry and Nadir.

Yes, he could say he had a friendship with Elphaba, but could she?

* * *

**A/N: Now I'm just gonna go pray that my grandmother and I - both being two blur queens - don't get lost in the streets of London. Adieu folks!**


	9. Chapter 9: Stealing Paint

**A/N: So I've returned from London one piece, with musical songs in my head. Especially Wicked, considering I skipped down Oxford Street singing _Dancing Through Life. _Louise's No Good Deed was sooooo awesome! I actually managed to find the stage door and got moi autographs and pictures with the cast :]**

**Ok I'm done with my rant.**

* * *

Erik was surprised he hadn't already strangled the choir conductor by the end of three months. Not that he didn't constantly twitch for rope. Elphaba was surprised Tibbett was still alive. Not that she wanted him dead.

Of their relationship, nothing drastic became of it. They did now acknowledge one another when they met in the hallways, but it was a mere smile, or a nod of the head. It wasn't much, but it was good enough for them.

This was the daily life in the mauntery, until the art materials started disappearing.

First it was a canvas. It wasn't much of a deal, only a piece of fabric gone missing.

Then it was an easel, but then again it was only one, so it went almost unnoticed.

And the brushes began disappearing one by one as well, yet they made do with the other many paint brushes they had.

But by the time the paints started going missing, Sister Logistics began to lose her mind.

"Where can whole tubes of brown, yellow, white, blue, red, and black disappear to?" she practically screamed. "Lurline spare us! I have a bunch of old folks after me for bad management of materials!" She nearly officially arranged a group of Paint Hunters to go hunt down the paints.

Then Sister Saint Aelphaba calmly approached the fuming maunt with a box in her hands. "Sister, I have your tubes of paint."

"Oh, thank goodness!" cried Sister Logistics, grabbing the box from Elphaba. But when she opened the individual tubes, and found them empty, she had it. She fainted right there and then on the terra-cotta floor.

"Great, you nearly caused the poor maunt to have a heart attack," Elphaba reprimanded, entering Erik's ward.

"I never wanted to return the tubes anyways," he replied nonchalantly, not taking his eyes of his canvas. "And it is partly your fault as well, having conspired with me."

"You do realize we have occasional painting sessions arranged for residents, don't you?" she asked hesitantly. "Thus all the painting materials."

"Yes, but i don't want to spend my afternoon out in the sun with all those fogies," answered Erik, dipping his brush into a jam jar where he had poured all the brown paint into. "I prefer solitude."

"Evidently," muttered Elphaba. "But what makes you so unsociable?"

At this point Erik looked up, the light catching his face at an angle so that his half-mask was especially highlighted. "My life." Then he looked back down at the canvas and the brush began to flick across it again.

"Look, I'm green, for Lurline's sake," she said. "I'm different in appearance. But that doesn't mean I'm different in attitude."

"You weren't tortured as a kid."

"You don't know me."

The brush stilled. Erik's eyes darted up to meet the woman that stood before him. It was true, he didn't know her at all. Nothing of her past other than the rumors spread by Liir and fellow maunts.

"Then tell me," he said.

"My father hates me."

"As does my mother."

"He says I'm a disgrace to the family."

"My mother says I'm a repulsion."

"He tried to drown me constantly."

"She nearly let me slit my wrists."

Elphaba eyed Erik curiously. "Seems like we have a lot in common. So we both have abusive parents. So what? W -"

"I was put on display as the Devil's Child," growled Erik, not letting her finish. "I was beaten and flogged and starved by gypsies. People attempted to take my life. We are _not_ the same, Mademoiselle Elphaba."

With that, the brush resumed it's strokes.

Elphaba stared at the back of the canvas that faced her, slightly dazed from all the information on his past he'd just given her.

"May I see it?" she asked finally.

Erik looked up once more, before shaking his head. "You ought to see a painting in its full glory," he said. "Only then, can you truly critique it and give it the rating it deserves."

Elphaba nodded her head in understanding. "You are indeed a talented man," she whispered. "A singer, an artist - "

"A composer, an architect, an engineer" continued Erik, his eyes focused on the canvas, not on her eyes that were now widening in wonder. "And _assassin_."

"Another similarity," pointed out Elphaba. Erik was yet again surprised. She took this news so calmly, when people would already have their tail between their legs and trying to distance themselves from him as quickly as possible. Like Christine had.

"You don't know the first thing about me!" snarled Erik, getting to his feet. "I killed people, woman! With my own bare hands! I watched them being strangled to death with the Punjab lasso I made! Have you ever killed anything?"

"I tried," muttered Elphaba under her breath, wincing slightly.

"Well then, mademoiselle, I must remind you we have severe differences in life. Now if you would be so kind to leave me in peace."

He was dismissing her. Just like that. Elphaba was used to cantankerous costumers chasing her out of the room, but Erik was a different case. For what reason, she didn't know, but she only knew she felt irritated and frustrated that she didn't have the last stand.

"You didn't have your beloved taken from you," she said, in a dangerously low voice.

"Really?" Erik raised an eyebrow. "You -"

"The love of your life wasn't _murdered_!" she snapped. Before she could control them, tears let loose and rolled down her cheeks. She couldn't stifle her scream in time, and it pierced the air, a hiss of agony escaping her lips.

Erik froze. She...

Then he saw it. Where the tears were supposed to be, there was a red mark trailing down her cheeks.

Erik couldn't believe it. She was green _and_ allergic to water. What had this beautiful woman done to deserve such defections?

The maunt cursed with a pained sob, swiping out a canister and dabbing the ointment across her cheeks. "I'm sorry...I shouldn't have lost my temper like that...it's just...I can't - " She turned her back on him.

Then, her news took it's toll on him. Her love was murdered. It all made sense now, why she'd tried to take her own life, why she detached herself from the world. He'd brassed her off by telling her of his own tortures, because she refused to accept that anyone had suffered more than her. She was drowning herself in self-pity, and she didn't seem to realize that. He'd been wallowing in his sorrow for some time as well, and she hadn't dismissed him as he'd almost done. Why should he?

He rose from his stool slowly, approaching her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She didn't flinch away, instead, slumped against his shoulder. A few seconds ticked by, with Elphaba just staring at the door, and Erik looking down at her, shifting uneasily. He wasn't used to comforting people through actions, only through song. And so he did, opening his mouth and activating his restless vocal cords.

_I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go,_

_And all those shadows almost killed your light_

_I remember you said don't leave me alone_

_But all that's dead and gone and past, tonight._

Elphaba tilted her head to stare into his deep amber eyes, sinking into the rich, smooth sound of his voice. A smile dancing on her lips, she joined in on the harmonious music, her voice merging with his perfectly.

_Just close your eyes, the sun is going down_

Elphaba let her eyelids drop, relishing in the perfect harmony of their soaring voices.

_You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now _

As if to emphasize his point, Erik moved his hand to her upper arm, pulling her in closer.

_Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound._

Their voices trailed off together, and silence filled the room once more, and yet, Elphaba could sense something else present in the air around them. She could sense security, and..._passion_.

With a gasp, she pushed away from Erik. No...no this wasn't happening. It couldn't.

She sped out of the room faster than Erik could blink, leaving the latter dumbstruck, his arm still stretched out where he'd been holding her a millisecond ago.

The Phantom of the Opera had always been the one with all the tricks up his sleeve, he was always the one with the cards. With the element of surprise.

It seemed now, he'd lost all his cards of surprise to a green maunt with aquaphobia.


End file.
